Passing Glances
by imag1ne
Summary: Jarod spends an unforgettable day in the library.


Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictitious. "The Pretender" is a protected trademark and I'm just playing with the characters. I'm not making any money from this story or any of the others I've written.

Note: This story has a wonderful prequel titled "First Glances". It was written by the incredibly talented Gables and can be found on the Missing Pieces website. Do not miss the chance to read it!

Passing Glances  
By imagine

He looked up from the books as a warm breeze invaded the air conditioned room. The glass doors closed slowly behind her as she stopped just over the threshold and took in her surroundings. Wiping the hot summer sweat from her brow, the woman proceeded into the coolness of the room with a quick smile in his direction.

He licked his lips as she passed then, before he realized he was doing so, moved from his seat to the one opposite, so he could watch her more closely. Her auburn hair was wrapped in a loose braid and wound tightly around itself at the nape of her neck. The thin, sleeveless cotton blouse that bared her smooth shoulders clung to her in the heat, giving a more defined sense of her form. Her cloth bag, tucked protectively under her arm, was so worn that the once bright yellows and blues of its flowered pattern, though still recognizable, were now faded. The deep summer tones of her skin glistened briefly as she stepped away from the windows and the natural light, brushing the tables with the long fingers of her extended hand.

His eyes dipped as she stepped to the front desk. Her skirt, long and flowing wasn't nearly as sheer as it had first appeared. Layers of thin, light colored fabric overlaid each other, concealing her long, muscular legs only when she was still. Her height was enhanced by sandals with a heel of at least three inches and his dark eyes rested on the thin anklet that sparkled and winked at him as she moved from his view. She was filled with an air of confidence that could have made Miss Parker pause.

Once she was no longer in his line of sight, he tried to return his attention to the open book in front of him, but found he could not concentrate. After reading the same paragraph four times, he shook his head and looked up, his eyes automatically drawn to the spot she had disappeared.

Leaving his belongings where they were, he rose and stepped between the long, light wood tables, following the path she had taken moments before, oblivious to the other patrons. Seconds later, he spotted the stranger at the far end of an otherwise empty corridor.

Glancing at a few titles as he passed, he smiled and slipped quietly down the neighboring aisle. Eagerly, he moved to the end, and placed his hand where he believed hers to be, listening as she rustled through pages and recited the poets words softly, approvingly.

Shakespeare. Marlowe.

He had no idea how long he stood in the same place, his hand sliding over the books on his side of the wall, mirroring her movements and enjoying the private reading. Her voice, though soft and hushed, was melodic as she read verse after verse, and he sensed she was taking some kind of comfort from the poems.

Something about this woman was familiar, though she was not. The idea of emerging from his hiding place and introducing himself, crossed his mind, but was discounted almost immediately. She had no idea who he was or that he was nearby, and, for some reason, he took as much solace in that fact as she did in the poetry.

He struggled to identify the feelings he was having, but soon found himself lost in her voice again.

"_There was a child went forth every day,  
And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became,  
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain  
part of the day,  
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years."_

Whitman. He listened, wondering, as she progressed through the poem, if she was reading it for him. He shook his head at the thought. Even if she were aware of his presence, he was as much a stranger to her as she was to him. She knew nothing of his talents or his life.

_"His own parents, he that had father'd him and she that had  
conceiv'd him in her womb and birth'd him,  
They gave this child more of themselves than that,  
They gave him afterward every day, they became part of him."_

Though his heart accepted her choice, his mind raced to understand why she had chosen this particular poem. Still matching her movements, he slid to the floor, and leaned against the shelving. Closing his eyes as she continued, he let himself be carried away, lulled by her voice.

_"Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all  
flashes and specks?  
Men and women crowding fast in the streets, if they are not  
flashes and specks what are they?  
The streets themselves and the facades of houses, and goods  
in the windows,  
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank'd wharves, the huge crossing  
at the ferries,  
The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset, the river  
between,  
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables  
of white or brown two miles off,  
The schooner near by sleepily dropping down the tide, the  
little boat slack-tow'd astern,  
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,  
The strata of color'd clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint away  
solitary by itself, the spread of purity it lies motionless in,  
The horizon's edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt  
marsh and shore mud,  
These became part of that child who went forth every day,  
and who now goes, and will always go forth every day."_

Her voice trailed off rather than ending abruptly and it took him a moment to realize she had finished. He looked down at the book he held, the one he had taken as a decoy on the off chance someone might see him sitting motionless at the end of the aisle. He hadn't read the title, or the page he had opened the book to, until now; until there was a break in her recital.

He could feel her sitting beside him; see her, in his minds eye, curled with her legs tucked comfortably beneath her and her skirt fanning the light carpet. Though his vision was obstructed by the wall of books; he knew that their time together was about to come to an end.

He read the passage in front of him, first silently to himself; then, when he heard her gathering her things, read it again, in the same whispered tone she had used.

_"There is a Lady sweet and kind,  
Was never face so pleased my mind;  
I did but see her passing by,  
And yet I love her till I die. _

Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,  
Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles,  
Beguiles my heart, I know not why,  
And yet I love her till I die.

Cupid is winged and doth range,  
Her country so my love doth change:  
But change she earth, or change she sky,  
Yet will I love her till I die." 

There was a long silence, and for a moment, he wondered if she had heard any of what had been recited. Had she actually been unaware of his presence? Had she been reading aloud for no other reason than the pleasure of reading? Placing his hand on the wall that had separated them, knowing she was no longer on the other side, he could not help but feel disappointed.

Releasing a quiet sigh, he rose to his feet and placed the book on the shelf. Turning toward the main aisle, he came to a sudden halt as a warm hand touched his shoulder. He closed his eyes and involuntarily held his breath, as the hand slid down his back, then followed the same path back to his shoulder. Her touch was as soft as her voice had been, hesitant and thoughtful as it moved around his body, cupping his face intimately.

His anxiousness increasing, he opened his eyes slowly, afraid the contact was nothing but a hopeful simulation; his imagination joining with reality long enough to drive him mad. Her green eyes were waiting for him, smiling as she pressed her lips to his before he could ruin the moment with a sound. The pressure was so light and tentative it could not be categorized as a kiss; but, he ardently accepted it as such.

"Thank you," she whispered, sliding her lips to his ear.

Suddenly struck mute, and frozen in his place, he watched her and the layers of fabric dancing around her legs as she seemed to glide away. By the time he regained his composure and moved into the large room, she was gone. Urgently, his stride swallowed the carpeted chamber, through the glass doors and into the hot, humid air, his eyes darting in every direction for a glimpse of the auburn hair and flowing skirt.

Whether it was the suddenness of the heavy air in his lungs, or the insight that he had just experienced something he may never again feel, Jarod would never completely comprehend. But, his legs began shaking as he slipped sadly back into the library and to the seat he had originally occupied.

The folded page fluttered slightly in the remnants of the warm breeze, drawing his attention to it questioningly. Carefully, he took it in his hands and stared at it a moment before summoning the courage to reveal the round cursive letters inside.

"_It lies not in our power to love or hate,  
For will in us is overruled by fate,  
When two are stripped, long ere the course begin,  
We wish that one should lose, the other win;  
And one especially do we affect  
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:  
The reason no man knows; let it suffice  
What we behold is censured by our eyes.  
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:  
Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?"  
_

The End

Note: The authors of the poetry, in order of their appearance, are: Walt Whitman, Unknown (if you know, please tell me), and Christopher Marlowe.


End file.
